as dainty as you aren't
by CherryFlavoredChalk
Summary: He wanted to throttle himself, because, honestly, he didn't have much experience, but he knew the damned rules; a boy showed you something he liked and you fawned over it and then cuddled into his arm. Klaine, KurtBlaine, BlaineKurt.


**a/n:** but like what the fuck is this? i blame finals and not enough sleep.

* * *

There wasn't much to do on the weekends at Dalton. Most of the students went home, or else into town, where there were probably better things to do. Arcades. Restaurants. Movies. Book stores and record shops. Any other Saturday afternoon, Kurt could've been sitting cross-legged on the floor of the local instrument store, his back propped up against the piano chair and his fingers reverently tracing the score for Evita. He could've been feverishly texting at the nearby Angelino's (a place that supposedly had 'absolutely heavenly' pizza, but he wouldn't know; a boy's got to watch his figure, after all), snapping inconsequential pictures of his new shoes against the gravel pavement to send to Rachel, who may have been something of an uppity little brat, but could usually be relied on to have good tastes in footwear. He could've been doing anything at all, anything unremarkably bland or typical of a boy his age that involved the fresh air.

But he wasn't. He was scrunched into the stuffy dorm that belonged to Blaine, He Who Is Adored and some other sort of unfortunate creature that was pathetically unaware that it could not wear both brown and black at the same time. GaGa preserve us all.

"This is nice," Kurt lied. It was awful. The room had a distinct smell of sweat around it, with the feeble scent of pine covering it up. "I like the decorations a lot." A giant bulletin board and scattered post-its on all four walls, air fresheners stapled around the edges. Was this hell? Was he being punished for that one time where he had purposely unwound the loose string off of one of Rachel's hideous sweaters?

Blaine smiled at him excitedly, which almost made Kurt want to forgive him for wearing that god-awful Warbler's '09 shirt. It was checkered, which Kurt could've worked with, but then there was the baby blue lettering on the orange shirt and- well, to be frank, if made Kurt feel a little homicidal. "Sorry about the mess, I just wanted to show you this so badly that I just- I don't know. Forgot, I suppose. It's not usually like this. We're much neater."

There was a poignant pause in which Kurt examined his nails and pretended not to notice such an obvious falsehood.

A small wave of pink rose around Blaine's ears. "Well. I'll just get it out, hang on a second." He twisted around a pile of dirty laundry and started fishing around it, muttering to himself and contorting himself around it so that any actual picking-up of the laundry didn't occur. Overall, it looked mildly obscene and was the perfect time for Kurt's eyes to eat him alive without being noticed.

"There it is! Just listen to this, alright, and tell me it doesn't take you completely for a spin and a half. It's genius." Blaine pressed a small button on set of speakers and nearly threw himself back on the bed. There was quiet, and then there was the sound of a quiet female voice singing about states and loving. It seemed weird, the girl's voice lifting on the end and almost blurred together, as if she wasn't listening to herself. It was entirely unlike the music that Kurt had ever listened to before, none of the bold musicals or roaring tenors that swooped above the violins and pianos and what have you.

It was weird and strange and Kurt found himself liking it, if only the tiniest bit.

"It sounds like she's talking," Kurt said, "it's okay. I mean, it's really nice. I, um-" He had no idea how to react to this sad indie shit. Kurt was all about bravado and thundering fortissimos, and while he wasn't such a huge fan of whatever this was, he didn't want to go and make Blaine think that he hated it. What if Blaine shut down and showed him out, never to text or speak to him again, all because he had snubbed some unknown, awkward (most likely) queer goddess of indie music?

The left corner of Blaine's mouth lifted the smallest fraction. "Don't lie, you hate it!"

"I don't!" Kurt said frantically. "I just-"

"You hate it so much!" Blaine laughed. "Admit it, I won't cry and throw you out."

"Oh." Kurt deflated. "I don't despise it. It's just, you know, not my favorite. At all. In the slightest. Ever. In any sort of mind." He wanted to throttle himself, because, honestly, he didn't have much experience, but he knew the damned rules; a boy showed you something he liked and you fawned over it and then cuddled into his arm.

But Blaine didn't seem bothered. He leaned back against the wall, looking alternately gorgeous and abhorrent with the fucking checkered shirt and his hair, damp and free from gel and that skin that showed from where the Warbler's shirt was riding up and- "We can't all have good taste," he said smoothly.

_Oh, my god_. "You're a music snob!"

"I just have better musical tastes than anyone else that I know," Blaine argued. "We can't all listen to Lady HaHa, or whatever she's calling herself these days."

_Lady HaHa_. Kurt was going to die. Before such an untimely demise could be acted out, his phone alerted him to the fact that Mercedes was apparently on her way to see Tina, and wanted to know if he wanted to come with. "I have to go. Um." He detached himself from the bed where he'd been happily watching the shape of Blaine's abs appear momentarily through the tight-fitting shirt and headed towards the door. "You know. Glamour awaits me." _Oh my god, shut up. Do not say anything more, Hummel. Say goodbye. _"Later, I guess. I mean…if you want to. With me."

Blaine was either a very good-looking saint or else hysterically cackling at Kurt's awkwardness on the inside. Kurt preferred to assume it was the former.

"I should hope so. And, Kurt?"

He practically tripped over himself. "Yes?"

"Don't worry so much about being nice to me. I can handle a little bit of badness in a person." He closed the door and Kurt gaped at it. _Badness_. What? What was he trying to imply? And that wink, and-

"Kurt, are you having an asthma attack? Because I thought you'd left, but you're just sort of standing there and it's a bit worrying."

He fled. Teenage hormones were the devil reincarnate.


End file.
